The Enemy Wasn’t Always Outside the Wire
Part 2 of the Vietnam War Series
This story is part of Brothers In Arms — my collection of firsthand military memories, Vietnam stories, veterans’ experiences, and the strange bits of Marine Corps life that never made it into the history books.
When I transferred from Dong Ha to Marine Wing Support Group 17 near Da Nang in late 1969, as part of Operation Keystone Cardinal I thought I had left the worst behind.
I wasn’t “short” enough to go home but compared to life at Camp Red Devil near the DMZ, life around the Da Nang Air Base almost felt civilized.
The nightly rocket attacks were far less frequent. We still took incoming now and then, but nothing like the constant pounding in the north. There were enough Marines on the perimeter that the fear of being overrun wasn’t something we lived with every day.
For the first time since arriving in Vietnam, I could usually count on getting a decent night’s sleep.
A Different Side of the War
One unexpected benefit of the assignment was getting to know some of the Air Force personnel stationed nearby, especially the F-4 Phantom crews. We called them “jet jockeys,” and they treated us well. They invited us into their mess hall, where the food was a welcome improvement over C-rations, and we were welcome at their theater.
One evening we watched John Wayne’s The Green Berets.
We laughed our asses off.
Not because we disliked John Wayne.
Because the movie was so far removed from the Vietnam we were living that it was almost comedy.
As we walked out of the theater, I remember wondering if people back home actually believed this was what the war looked like. Hollywood had created a version of Vietnam that bore little resemblance to the one we knew.
Television brought us other reminders of the world we’d left behind.
Music did too. Vietnam had its own soundtrack, and what we really listened to over there became one of the strongest connections we had to the world back home.
Woodstock.
Anti-war demonstrations.
And just a few months before I came home in August 1972, the tragedy of Kent State.
Truthfully, though, most of us had stopped worrying about politics.
The domino theory.
The speeches from Washington.
The nightly news.
Those things mattered to people back home.
For those of us in Vietnam, the mission had become much simpler.
Stay alive.
Finish your tour.
Go home.
Quiet Moments
On quiet evenings, a few of us would climb onto the top of a bunker and watch AC-47 gunships—better known as “Puff the Magic Dragon”—working targets out in the bush.
The streams of red tracers looked almost beautiful against the night sky.
Almost.
Because every burst of fire meant there were Marines or soldiers out there in the darkness depending on that aircraft to keep them alive.
We’d sit there in silence, each of us offering our own private prayer for the men doing the real fighting beyond the wire.
The Thefts
Our hooches at Da Nang were better built than the plywood shacks I’d lived in near Dong Ha. Since they weren’t being flattened by rockets every other night, we gradually accumulated a few comforts.
Small stereos.
Electric fans.
Things we’d bought during R&R or picked up through the PX.
Then they started disappearing.
At first we thought someone had simply misplaced something.
Then another fan vanished.
Then another stereo.
It became obvious someone was stealing from Marines while we were away on missions during the day.
Everyone complained.
Everyone wanted the thief caught.
So one morning another Marine and I volunteered to stay behind.
We hid inside our hooch and waited.
It didn’t take long.
We heard voices.
Vietnamese.
Then English.
Looking outside, we watched two Marines working with several Vietnamese civilians, quietly cleaning out the hooch next to ours.
The operation was well organized.
They weren’t carrying the stolen property through the front gate.
They had a tunnel running beneath the perimeter wire into a nearby village we called “Dogpatch.”
Fans.
Stereos.
Anything they could sell.
Everything disappeared through that tunnel.
My buddy and I chambered rounds in our M-16s and stepped outside.
The Vietnamese scattered immediately.
The two Marines weren’t so lucky.
We held them at gunpoint and marched them toward the command post.
As we walked, a crowd gathered.
Someone yelled,
“What the hell are you doing?”
Then I heard one of the Marines we had captured shout to the crowd,
“Kill them! They can’t testify if they’re dead!”
I remember thinking he couldn’t possibly be serious.
I would soon learn he was.
The Walking Dead
At the time, we honestly believed we’d done exactly what every Marine expected us to do.
We had caught the thieves.
We turned them over to our chain of command.
We thought that would be the end of it.
We couldn’t have been more wrong.
Instead, we became the problem.
It started almost immediately.
The men in our hooch quietly moved out.
No explanations.
No arguments.
They simply packed their gear and found somewhere else to sleep.
Nobody wanted to be associated with us.
Then one of the Marines we’d arrested made good on the threat he’d shouted while we were marching him to the command post.
“Kill them. They can’t testify if they’re dead.”
At first I thought it was just talk.
I was wrong.
One Marine from another hooch was shot.
Then two innocent Marines were murdered in what we believed was a case of mistaken identity. Whoever pulled the trigger had the wrong men.
Suddenly it wasn’t just a courtroom witness they were trying to silence.
It could be any of us.
One day someone found a fragmentation grenade hidden inside a fire extinguisher just outside our hooch.
Whether it was meant for us or simply another warning, nobody had to explain the message.
We were living on borrowed time.
The isolation became almost as frightening as the threats.
At the mess hall nobody would sit with us.
One Marine looked at us and said,
“We don’t eat chow with dead men.”
That sentence has stayed with me for more than fifty years.
We had done exactly what everyone had wanted.
Every Marine had complained about the thefts.
Every Marine wanted the thieves caught.
But once we caught them, we became the enemy.
That’s when I learned another lesson the Marine Corps never taught in boot camp.
Sometimes doing the right thing comes with a price.
“One Marine looked at us and said, ‘We don’t eat with dead men.’ That sentence has stayed with me for more than fifty years.”
Asking for Help
After the second murder, we stopped worrying about prosecutions.
We simply wanted out.
We requested transfers to other units.
The answer was no.
Officially, there hadn’t been any murders.
We were told they were accidents.
That explanation didn’t square with what we had seen, but admitting otherwise would have meant acknowledging serious problems inside the command.
Whether anyone wanted to admit it or not, morale, discipline, and careers were all on the line.
A Letter Home
Running out of options, I wrote a letter to my father.
I told him something no son ever wants to tell his parents.
If anything happened to me, it probably wouldn’t be the enemy who killed me.
It would be another Marine.
I had no idea what Dad would do with that letter.
He immediately contacted Headquarters Marine Corps in Washington.
My command responded by assuring him I was exaggerating the danger and that my concerns were unfounded.
That only convinced my father something was very wrong.
He wrote again.
And again.
Each letter created more problems for me.
The CO
Eventually I was ordered into my commanding officer’s office.
He was furious.
I was informed that because of my actions I would be considered a substandard Marine.
I was told my career was effectively over.
Promotion?
Forget it.
Transfer?
Forget it.
I was even warned that if I continued making accusations I could face a dishonorable discharge.
I stood there rigid at attention in front of his desk.
Then something inside me snapped.
I was tired of the abuse and of being persecuted for doing what I believed was right.
I suddenly realized I had nothing left to lose.
I took a deep breath, relaxed my body and pulled up a chair.
Sat down.
I had seen the elephant, and I was not afraid of this REMF!
I was tempted to put my feet up on his desk but his reaction to my exit from a position of attention was enough.
He exploded. “how dare you, Marine”
I looked him in the eye and calmly said,
“Lieutenant, I wouldn’t be so eager to paint me a bad Marine if I were you. If you think you’ve got problems now, wait until I report these threats back to Washington. You’ve already told me I was the kind of Marine you wanted under your command. I’ve got the commendations you signed to prove it.”
He ordered me to get back to my feet.
As I slowly rose, ready to say more—
“Get out”
The meeting ended exactly as you’d expect.
A few days later someone handed me a new set of orders.
I was going back to the United States.
At the time, I thought I had finally escaped Vietnam.
It would take me decades to realize Vietnam had no intention of letting go of me.
We like to believe doing the right thing is always rewarded. Sometimes it isn’t. Sometimes speaking up costs you friends, makes you a target, or puts you on the wrong side of people you’d expected to stand beside you.
Have you ever done what you believed was right even though you knew there might be a price to pay?
Military or civilian, share your experience in the comments. Sometimes the hardest stories to tell are the ones someone else most needs to hear.
Continue Exploring
Boot Camp Didn’t Prepare Me for Vietnam
From MCRD San Diego to Dong Ha—the beginning of the Vietnam experience that no amount of Marine Corps training could fully prepare me for.
Boot Camp Legends
The stories, screwups, rumors, and recruits we never forgot from Marine Corps boot camp.
When Vietnam Finally Came Home
The shooting stopped and the tour ended, but Vietnam followed many of us home in ways we didn’t understand for years.
For the Marines: Uncle Jack, the Pueblo, and a Night Out of ITR
A personal story connecting my family, the Marine Corps, the USS Pueblo crisis, and one unforgettable night during infantry training.
Living With PTSD: A Marine Explains It
What PTSD has meant in my own life—and how Vietnam continued long after I came home.
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This is a serious story involving Marines, threats, violence, and decisions made more than five decades ago. Disagreement and different recollections are welcome. Personal attacks are not. If you served there and remember events differently, tell your story—but respect the people involved and distinguish what you personally witnessed from what you heard or later came to believe.
This article recounts my personal memories of events I experienced as a United States Marine in Vietnam in 1969–1970. Nearly six decades have passed, and memory is not a military logbook. Conversations, sequences, and details are presented as honestly as I remember them.
Some events described here were things I personally witnessed. Other conclusions—particularly concerning the deaths of fellow Marines, the reasons behind them, and who may have been responsible—reflect what we believed at the time based on what we saw and experienced. I present those conclusions as recollection, not as independently verified findings.